


Life is but a day

by Ark



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Birthdays, Boyfriends, Established Relationship, M/M, Modern AU, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:38:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre’s birthday is cursed. He doesn’t particularly mind. He’s used to it. </p><p>In past years this has resulted in presents sent to the wrong address, restaurants that have lost the reservation, waiters dropping cakes or starting fires from candles. He’d rather just skip the whole affair and avoid whatever catastrophe lies in wait, but some friends cling stubbornly to celebrations of encroaching age and insist. Sometimes boyfriends do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life is but a day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalevalaSage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalevalaSage/gifts).



Stop and consider! life is but a day;  
A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way  
From a tree’s summit

\--John Keats

"The return of my birthday, if I remember it, fills me with thoughts which it seems to be the general care of humanity to escape."  
\--Samuel Johnson

 

 

Combeferre’s birthday is cursed. He doesn’t particularly mind. He’s used to it. 

In past years this has resulted in presents sent to the wrong address, restaurants that have lost the reservation, waiters dropping cakes or starting fires from candles. He’d rather just skip the whole affair and avoid whatever catastrophe lies in wait, but some friends cling stubbornly to celebrations of encroaching age and insist. Sometimes boyfriends do.

Enjolras has never made a big deal about it before; he’s witnessed enough maligned days to give the curse at least some credit for perseverance. But turning 28 is a watershed moment, Enjolras points out as the day looms. Making it out of the 27 Club is significant. Combeferre is boldly going on to an age that Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison and many other visionaries did not live to see. 

When Combeferre holds this up as evidence that he has missed his chance to be a rock star, Enjolras grins and kisses him and says he has more of a Leonard Cohen longevity. 

They make plans for a casual gathering of their friends at their favorite bar. They do this often enough; it seems the idea least able for the universe to screw up. 

The universe has other plans, and Combeferre should have known better than to think he could thwart the curse. 

He awakens with leaden dread in his belly, to the sound of Enjolras emptying the contents of his stomach in the bathroom. Combeferre swings out of bed and goes to the door, but is not admitted; when Enjolras comes out ten minutes later, he is pale and miserable. 

“It’s -- it’s just some little stomach bug, or something that I ate,” insists Enjolras, though he lets Combeferre put an arm around him and conduct him back to bed, where he collapses face-first into pillows. “I’ll be fine if I get some more sleep.”

“Did you eat _death_?” asks Combeferre, worried, bundling him into blankets. “Because that’s what you look like, my love.”

“I’ll be _fine_ ,” Enjolras repeats. Combeferre can hear his grimace, even though he’s still facedown on the bed. “Oh, Christ. Combeferre. Happy birthday. And congratulations. I am officially the worst boyfriend in the world.”

Combeferre draws the blankets in tight. “Officially now the best,” he counters. “The curse has shown itself early. It’s the finest present I could ask for, to not have to spend the day dreading what will go wrong. You being sick means I get to cancel my birthday, and spend the day curled up with you and making soup; I couldn’t be happier, except on your account.”

“No, no,” mutters Enjolras. “You can’t cancel birthdays. Jehan’s making his special cupcakes--”

“We’ll talk about this later,” says Combeferre, still rejoicing in the freedom of knowing that nothing could be so bad as Enjolras unavailable to celebrate with him. The relief of not having to dread the rest of the day is monumental. He presses a kiss to Enjolras’ sweaty brow and goes to make tea. 

He cooks them a healthy breakfast (28 was once considered quite mature for homosapiens) and gets Enjolras to eat a little of the oatmeal. When Enjolras falls back asleep, Combeferre spends several hours fielding the birthday messages that come pouring in from social media and in emails and on his phone. 

Many more people than he remembers seem to remember him on his birthday; he supposes for some that it the magic of the day, when for no reason save the act of having survived another year you are singled out for special treatment. Of all human rituals it’s a harmless and loving one; only Combeferre’s is cursed. He dodges his friends’ phone calls when he warns that Enjolras is sick. 

In their bed, Enjolras groans throughout the afternoon. He shows no signs of improvement, though he valiantly attempts to struggle up a time or two. Each time Combeferre pushes him gently back, and one time he climbs in and wraps himself around Enjolras and they have a nap; but it’s long since been clear that Enjolras won’t be going anywhere or drinking anything tonight save broth.

Enjolras makes him go, refusing to hear of any other thing. 

When Combeferre tries to wriggle out of going, Enjolras argues him down with masterful logic even from his sickbed. When Combeferre won’t get into the shower, Enjolras takes off his clothes and gets in first, unsteady on his feet, so that Combeferre must come in after him. Combeferre holds onto Enjolras under the water, and washes them both; they stay in a shower a long while. After, Enjolras curls up in bed wrapped in the patchwork quilt and helps Combeferre choose what to wear.

“Too fancy,” Combeferre protests. But Enjolras likes the vest and tie and the cut of the dress pants hemmed for Courfeyrac and Marius’ wedding. At least he’ll never have to be _that_ dressed up again for as long as he lives. Enjolras likes the outfit, so that’s what Combeferre puts on.

“I promise you I’ll be okay,” Enjolras is assuring, with Combeferre ready to go and hovering. “I just feel terrible, generally, and about everything.”

“Don’t.” Combeferre bends low to kiss him, despite protests of illness. “‘Happy Birthday’ only takes a minute or two to sing. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Don’t rush. Have a good time. I’ll send you hourly updates, all right?”

“All right.” It takes all of Combeferre’s willpower to leave Enjolras behind. “I love you.”

“I know.” Enjolras smirks Han Solo style, the way Combeferre likes, then looks more serious. “I love you, too. Happy birthday.”

Combeferre goes to the bar, and the universe isn’t done with him.

He’s neither late nor early, appropriate for a gathering ostensibly about him. He arrives at Corinthe on time, looking around for friendly faces. The bar is nearly empty, lucky for a Thursday night, and he was excited to see that upon approach; but inside, there is no one that he knows. 

Combeferre frowns and checks his watch and then his phone to make sure. He buys a beer, which is not proper birthday etiquette, but he’s feeling awkward enough standing alone at the bar in his finery. Surrounded by a circle of friends he wouldn’t stand out, but no one comes through the door no matter how much he wills their arrival.

The curse has swallowed the entirety of his friend-base. He should have known better than to think the worst was past. Enjolras’ illness is a mere tease, only the start of it. Who knows what catastrophe has waylaid his friends? No sign of any of them, no new messages --

His phone buzzes and he grabs for it. 

Eponine: _held up in traffic w/cosette ;)_

And immediately thereafter:

Joly: _I have a patient emergency and since I’m driving, Bossuet will also be tardy. Sorry, we love you_

As Combeferre goes to refill his beer, Bahorel: _feuilly and i had a thing we’re running late whoops happy bday bro_

Combeferre settles onto a bar stool after that, shaking his head, not sure whether to laugh or turn off the alert noise. He’s happy that disaster hasn’t struck, but it feels like a cruel twist from the cold-hearted universe to pile on the texts at once. His friends are fine; they all just have somewhere else to be, which is also fine. It’s lonely but downplays the risk of further disruptions. 

He chats a bit with the bartender, who exclaims upon hearing that it’s his birthday, and pours out shots for several people to do. After that Combeferre has new friends, and smiles and chats more vacantly, and wonders how long he’s supposed to wait here before he can get back to Enjolras, who is the only one who hasn’t texted. Like he’d promised. Ten more minutes, and Combeferre is going home, traffic jams or no.

Five minutes into the deadline he feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to greet Courfeyrac’s sunny face. Courfeyrac gives good hugs, full-bodied and earnest, and Marius has learned to emulate them. They enfold him in warm arms, and Combeferre thinks birthdays aren’t always so bad, not if it earns you embraces like this.

The news, however, is not good:

“We feel awful,” says Courfeyrac, indicating a new round of drinks to the bartender at the same time that he wrings his hands, flustered. “We would never, ever, ever, ever think to miss your birthday --”

“This was practically our idea--” from Marius, who looks terribly guilty, and carries an exquisitely wrapped present, and on top of that a pastry box.

“The tickets are once in a lifetime,” Courfeyrac says slowly, as though letting it sink in will have a persuasive effect on Combeferre. “We only heard we won the raffle this afternoon. I didn’t know how to tell you, with your paranoid curse-thing, so I thought it might be better to stop by before the show--”

“We’re so, so sorry,” says Marius, explaining about the raffle tickets at his job and the improbable odds and how he’d won, after never having won anything in his life. “But we can’t--”

“Of course not,” says Combeferre, mild as he can make it to soothe them. “What kind of monster would make you miss Beyonce?”

“You are a great man, Combeferre,” says Courfeyrac, “and you will make an even greater king.”

“Oh, shut up,” Combeferre grumbles, but he’s smiling. “Just give me another hug and begone.”

They comply with a hug of epic proportions. They promise a raincheck, and Marius delivers his parcels. “The gift’s from us. The cupcakes are from Jehan. He’s stuck at the office with a deadline and they won’t let him go. He’s --”

“Sorry,” says Combeferre. “Yeah, I get it. It’s really okay, guys. I should be getting back home anyway. Enjolras--”

“Would want you to stay out,” says Courfeyrac, hand on his hip, ready to challenge Combeferre to more birthday festivities whether he likes it or not. “The others’ll be here soon, it’ll be great, you’ll see--”

Combeferre takes their gifts and good wishes, and ushers them out. He watches them walk arm in arm, trying not to skip, until they vanish around the next corner; then he goes back to his drink.

“Weird birthday,” offers the bartender, pouring them another shot.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Combeferre sighs. There’s nothing else to do, so he spends a while recounting the worst of his “special day” catastrophes to the scruffy new barkeep, who’s nice enough to listen. 

“Whoa, rough,” says the bartender, introduced as Grantaire. “Birthdays are meant to be joyous affairs. Your problem is no one ever got you a tiara.” 

“That would probably make the difference,” Combeferre grins, inclined to agree. There’s still no sign of his friends past multiple mental deadlines and Enjolras has officially missed his check-in time and is not responding to texts. It’s time to pay the tab and leave a nice tip and go.

“May I buy you a drink?”

The voice is low and melodious and full of intimate suggestion.

Combeferre knows it better than his own.

“Wow,” says Grantaire, from across the bar.

Combeferre turns around.

The first thing he notices is that Enjolras is not sick: not sick at all, he is boldly made and robust and so, so beautiful. There is nothing pallid now about his pink cheeks and red lips; above the smiling lips his hair is a golden wave. The second thing he notices is that Enjolras is in full black tie, a tuxedo that fits him like a glove and is the work of sorcerous tailors. 

It is an ensemble Combeferre has never seen before; it is an ensemble the world may not be ready for, judging by how Enjolras is turning heads. Everything about him is gorgeous; his teeth gleam white, his blue eyes sparkle, his yellow hair hints at treasure. He steps into their midst as from a silver screen.

It is hard to take all of him in at once. Combeferre swallows and blinks, to be assured this is not a vision, then pushes up from the bar. He knows he looks surprised because he’s astonished. His brain computes the probabilities fast enough, but he needs to hear it said. “What’s going on?”

He wants to go to Enjolras and put his arms around him and do inappropriate things to the tuxedo, but the slow realization of what’s happening keeps him somewhat sane. The scope of it is enormous --

“They tell me it’s your birthday.” Enjolras stubbornly persists in suave character. 

“You didn’t--” Combeferre cannot believe this. 

“They tell me you’re mostly through with your birthday,” says Enjolras, “and the curse is behind you.”

“ _You did,_ ” Combeferre breathes. “Oh my god, Enjolras. But the others--”

“Easy enough to convince. I’ve been planning this a while. All were complicit in non-arrival save Marius, who can’t keep a secret; earlier today Courfeyrac made him think he’d won some sort of contest so he’d go quietly.” 

Combeferre starts laughing. Stops. “And you so sick!”

“Wasn’t I just,” returns Enjolras. One gold eyebrow slides up high, devilish to counter his angelic face, and Combeferre is reminded of what a devastating actor Enjolras can be on command. At least he has the goodness to look a touch chagrined. “I’m sorry for lying, and I went back and forth over how dramatic of a performance to give. But I knew it would work to distract you from making something worse happen with your worrying. Didn’t we have a fine day?”

“Yes,” Combeferre admits, ashamed that he’s taken superstition so far as to need an elaborate contrivance for distraction. He’s happy that it’s true, however: their lazy day in bed curled up together was far superior than anything Combeferre would have anticipated.

“Surprise,” Enjolras says. “We aren’t through yet. The plan is that we’re going to breakfast.”

“To breakfast,” Combeferre repeats.

“Yes.” Now Enjolras is irrepressibly, irresistibly sly.

Combeferre is content to look at him. It isn’t just the tuxedo; that is a great help and no hurt, but the satisfied yet anxious-to-please expression Enjolras is wearing -- wears only for him -- is even better.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” says Combeferre. “Where are we having breakfast?”

The smile dazzles. “Paris.”

He feels his eyes go round. “You’re joking--”

“Our bags are packed and waiting in the limo,” says Enjolras. “The limo’s waiting to take us to the airport.” 

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, under his breath. “Don’t let this one go.” He goes to get the check. 

Dazed, Combeferre inclines his head. “We don’t have the money for this.”

“We do when we’ve been secretly saving for it,” says Enjolras, coming to him now, and slipping his arms around Combeferre. “I told you I’ve been planning for a while. I’m quite thorough.”

“I can’t believe it.” Combeferre’s heart is beating fast. Never in his wildest dreams has he imagined such a scheme, and that Enjolras has executed it under his nose is the best and boldest kind of surprise.

“Come on,” says Enjolras. “I have the means of convincing.”

Grantaire waves them out. “Hey, have a great night, guys. Isn’t that inspiring, folks? And they say love is dead. Or is it God? I forget --”

Outside on the street there is an old-fashioned limousine, long and black and sleek. They clamber into an interior comprised of plush leather and elegant wood panelling. Champagne is chilling in the illuminated icebox. 

When the door closes behind them Combeferre climbs up over Enjolras and kisses him as hard as he can, plastering them to the leather. Enjolras makes a contented sound into his mouth and they spend a good ten minutes rolling on the couches, trying them out to find their favorite.

“This is so crazy,” says Combeferre, finally coming up for air. “My passport. I have to go to work tomorrow!”

“Everything’s settled,” says Enjolras. “We’re in the clear, Combeferre. What you have to do is relax and believe that it’s your birthday and trust that this is happening. The curse is broken.”

Enjolras puts a hand on his shoulder, and pushes him back, gently but firmly. Combeferre lies down and turns his head to watch Enjolras in his dark tuxedo go to his knees on the limo floor. He bends over Combeferre, undoing the buttons on his vest. Combeferre believes.

“All year I’ve been thinking about how to make this birthday different, after the snowstorm last time,” says Enjolras. He works to strip Combeferre of the majority of his clothing, and Combeferre lets him, following a guilty glance at the blacked-out partition between them and the driver. 

“Finally I decided we needed a change of locations entirely. I considered London, but it is too rainy this time of the century. I thought about Venice, how we could take a gondola ride into cliche, and decided this was a better sort of ride to have.” Enjolras ducks his head, licking a stripe up Combeferre’s cock, already hard and ready for him. Combeferre moans, and reaches, but Enjolras is evasive.

“Paris has the right mix of attractions and real-city grit. We’re staying in an old part, by the river. I chose it because I know how you feel about cobblestones.” Enjolras punctuates words with wet flicks of his tongue, then swallows him all at once, not stopping until his nose is flush to Combeferre’s belly. 

Combeferre fights the urge to roll his hips and fists his hands in Enjolras’ hair instead and gives in to the perfect harmony that exists between them. If he thrusts Enjolras will move on him and take all that Combeferre can give, and if he lies still to receive, Enjolras will suck his cock just like he likes it and take Combeferre straight to the edge --

Enjolras knows exactly what he likes, knows where Combeferre is the most sensitive, knows just where and how to do this. This Enjolras has always loved to do, was the first thing they ever did, and they’re only ever better with time. They keep their eyes open through it, still amazed by what they can achieve together.

Combeferre slides two fingers along Enjolras’ throat to feel them joined; then he urges him to pull back. On his knees Enjolras is panting, with slick shiny lips and the outline of his cock pressed against the tuxedo lines. 

“You are--” Combeferre can’t describe all of him: a masterpiece, a symphony, the stuff of epics. “I love you. I want you.”

“Open Courfeyrac and Marius’ present. They volunteered the supplies.”

“Enjolras!” It's difficult to make Combeferre blush, but this succeeds.

“Courfeyrac wouldn’t have it any other way. He wanted to take me to the sex shop to pick something out for you, but I said we’d rather be inspired.” He eases off his knees and sits beside Combeferre, stroking his hair. “No, wait, let’s save that for the hotel in Paris. I have something else for you to unwrap.”

Combeferre hears the mischievous note and sits up. “What’s that?”

“Me.” Enjolras indicates the many layers that comprise his elaborate costume, starting with the bowtie. He looks inordinately pleased at the solution. “I wore this for you to take off.”

“Will I get to keep what I find?” asks Combeferre, reaching for him.

“I hope that you will,” says Enjolras.


End file.
